


Coming Home

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [22]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: The day had finally come, the tanks had rolled in and the camp had been liberated.  Next stop for Hogan and his team - London!  It'd all been worked out, all arranged; they all were looking forward to that drink at Maudie's pub that Newkirk had been promising them for oh so long, sitting together as free men once again.  Home again - no more fighting, no more battles, no more trying to figure out who were friends or foes.  It was done!   Well, maybe for most, but it seems not for Peter Newkirk.  For him, the journey is just beginning.





	1. The Journey

**Author's Note:**

> Last chapter includes (pretty non-graphic) intimacy and role-play. Any who find this offensive, please omit at your discretion.
> 
> Just a note for those who asked why my stories in the Peter Newkirk saga are tilted (in number anyway) more toward the 'after the war years', while the Garrison's Gorillas stories are tilted more toward the 'during the war years'. Perhaps it was that HH had six years of broadcasts in which to get their stories covered, while GG only had one. Or maybe it's that the Heroes didn't have the same opportunities to get their 'after the war' plans put in place, or their basic angst worked out somewhat. Newkirk, and his friends, well, they'd just not had that freedom before the liberation. Peter, in particular, had quite a way to go with all that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many things had gone wrong; now he was alone, and sick, and bewildered in a city that suddenly was nothing like what he'd remembered. Where do you go when home just isn't there anymore? If he could just remember!

The liberation of Stalag 13 had been accomplished, the charges set and detonated to leave no trace of their tunnels. It was a mixed camp, Americans, French, Canadians, British, even a few Russians; an enlisted camp, Hogan had been the only officer other than the chaplain. He'd been told he had to report straight back to London, his men to follow; he'd been given assurances that his Command Crew would be kept together as he'd requested, til they joined him at London HQ for debriefing. He shook hands all around, gave a few slaps on the back to a favored few, smiling assurances to Newkirk, Carter, Kinch, LeBeau, and was gone in that jeep, only a trail of dust remaining. 

As soon as Hogan had departed, the men were loaded onto trucks for the journey to the coast. Initially, the promise was kept; although the other men were separated by nationality, LeBeau, Kinch, Carter, Newkirk were all allowed to stay together in the same vehicle; it was only at the second transfer point that things changed. That transfer point was where the inmates from several camps were merged, and sent on their way.

Despite their protests, LeBeau was herded off to join the rest of the Free French, Carter to the truck for Americans. Kinch wasn't allowed on that truck, being black; American troops were segregated, and he joined the other American blacks on a separate truck.

Newkirk was included on the truck with the Brits. The ones from Stalag 13 kept a watchful eye on him; he'd been recovering from the latest round of illness to hit the camp, was worn down and even more thin that he usually was, though that didn't seem possible, and still suffering from a shoulder wound. They knew what his position had been in camp; they liked and respected him for the most part. That wasn't the case for the men from the other camps, though.

The whisper had gone around, once his name was known; a few had heard that infamous interview with Berlin Betty, and he garnered more than a few bruises before the guys from Stalag 13 were able to intervene. Actually, he was lucky to only receive bruises; acceptable treatment for what they'd consider a traitor would have been much bloodier, much more final. They never really knew whether to believe the story the other Brits from Stalag 13 told them, that it'd been a put up job to run some con on the Krauts, but figured time would tell. They'd let others sort it out; if he'd really betrayed England, he'd pay, they were sure of it. He collected no more bruises, but lots of cold stares and hard looks; that lasted til they landed and were processed to go ashore.

He'd gotten separated from his Stalag 13 companions during those last few hours before deboarding. His initial anger at being separated from his closest mates at the transfer point had given way to apprehension when accosted by his fellow Brits, apprehension turned to depression, something he'd had to fight most of his life, depression to numbness.

He hadn't heard from his sister for several months; he'd hoped she'd made it safely out of the city, but there was no way of knowing. Caeide' last letter had been from two months ago, though at least he knew where she'd be, at Haven in the north of Wales.

After receiving the meager walking-around monies and instructions as to where to report onshore, he made his way slowly thru the ravaged city streets, eventually finding his way to his former home ground. {"Gone, it's all gone,"} seeing only bombed out ruins, fire damaged shells of what he had known as the corner market, the flat where he'd lived, the pub where Old Maude and Marisol lived. He wandered aimlessly now, reaching out to ask about people he knew when he met someone in the streets, but no one had any answers. He knew he was supposed to report somewhere, but for what? Why? Why did it even matter?

He went into a pub, ordered a drink and something to eat, but the people around him made him uncomfortable. There was this one bloke, in particular, the one who kept eyeing him, who watched him bring out his small fold of money. Something told him there was trouble coming, and he left out the back way, as if he'd just going to visit the latrine, leaving his food and half finished drink sitting on the table.

Hours later, tired to the point of just not caring anymore, he was approached by a nice-seeming couple, older. They put their hands on his forearms, urging him to come home with them for a rest and a meal; somehow, their touch raised the hair on the back of his neck, and he incongruously thought of 'Sweeney Todd', and he found he cared enough to pull away in a panic and ran off.

Now, everywhere he looked there seemed to be danger, everyone seemed to be menacing, their faces distorted. He had to get somewhere safe, he had to get home; somewhere was safe, somewhere was home, his dazed mind kept telling him, but where? His fever was back, he knew, and he wasn't breathing right, but there was nothing to be done about it; he couldn't ask for help, couldn't show weakness, not with the city full of predators. If only he could think! How did he end up alone with no one to guard his back? Where were those he was supposed to be guarding in return? Why couldn't he think??!

Across the way was a travel office, light still shining in the window. He made his way cautiously over and slid inside, standing with his back to the door, ready to escape if he had to.

The elderly man seated at the desk looked up in surprise; he'd been just ready to close up for a bit, have the last bit from his thermos of tea and the half sandwich he'd saved from his lunch. Was this skinny, wide-eyed man in the tattered uniform a danger? He had a pistol in his desk, but doubted whether he'd know how to use it, or would have the nerve to do so.

"What can I do for you, sir," he asked hesitantly.

The man in the worn uniform breathed heavily, his nostrils flaring, "I 'ave to get 'ome, can you 'elp?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know, sir. Where might your home be?"

The old man, Giles Masters by name, was stunned when the hesitant answer came, "I, I don't rightly know. I mean, I know what it's called, I know it's in Wales, but you see, I've never actually been there. I don't know 'ow to get there, but I've got to; it's all I got left, you see."

Frowning, Giles wondered just what he was dealing with, {"it's his home, but he's never been there, doesn't know how to get there?"}. He thought of his own son, lost early in the war; he'd have been younger than this confused young man, but somehow there was a resemblance, something about those eyes. Slowly he got up from his chair behind the desk, walked over and gently took Peter by the arm.

"Come, you sit down here and tell me what you do know. We'll see if we can figure it out together." He saw the flush on the thin cheeks, knew illness when he saw it. He smiled reassuringly, pulled down the thermos with his last bit of tea, and got out two of his own precious aspirins from the desk.

"Here, lad, take these, and I've a bit of food too; looks like you could use it," handing over the skimpy half sandwich, just bread and cheese, but maybe it'd help. Waiting till the tea and food had been gulped down, he continued, "now, your home. You said you know what the name is. Tell me, and I'll see what I can do."

The name meant nothing to him, but at his blank stare, the dark haired man said, "it's Welsh, probably better if I write it down, I'm probably saying it all wrong. And there's a symbol, like a code, that goes with it." He frowned, "at least, I think there is."

Pushing a piece of paper and worn pencil across the desk, Giles waited for Peter to slowly, painfully print a long name across the paper, then draw a small symbol below it. Giles took and looked at it, then pulled a thick reference book off the shelf, his eyes moving back and forth from the paper to one page after another in the book. His visitor was leaning back in the chair now, eyes closed, trembling. {"If I can't find what he's looking for, maybe I can convince him to come home with me; he can't be wandering around, he's not fit."}

Suddenly, there it was in front of him; the name of a train stop in Northern Wales, not even a village; not a regular stop, the train would only stop if there was a special request. Most of the place names in his book had symbols after them, indicating where food or lodging was available, historical site, military significance, and others. This name had none of that, but had another symbol, one he didn't know the meaning of and couldn't find listed in the symbol guide, but it matched the symbol on the paper.

{"So this is where he calls home. Quite a journey, it'll be; wish I could make it with him, he could use the help,"} he thought with unwilling concern; he'd tried not to get involved, to get attached, after his son had died, but something about this one, it pulled at him. Maybe the lost look in his eye, matched together with the shabby uniform. His own boy had had dark hair, too, he remembered wistfully, and worn a similar uniform, though his uniform had been bright and new, not worn, faded and mended like this one.

He went to work, pulling up schedules, writing out rail passes, printing out detailed instructions. When he was finished, he waited, letting Peter sleep as long as he could. Then, with a gentle word, he awakened him.

"I've put it all together, the way to get you home," he smiled encouragingly. Peter listened, desperately hoping it was all true. "Now, it's some ways, it'll take time. I warn you, you'd be best not to sleep on the train; there are dangers now that I never thought I'd see in my own land, but dangers there are." Peter nodded, remembering the people he'd encountered in the street. "There's no food on the train, and if you take any on with you, it'll just make you a target. Find a space where you can guard your back, and stay alert. When the train man comes through, show him this piece of paper; it'll tell him when to let you know your stop is next. You HAVE to do that; the train won't stop otherwise, not there! Your passes are all in this envelope; hold on to it securely. Have you no coat? It'll be a chill journey." At the slow shake of the man's head, Giles reached over and caught up his own well-worn coat and placed it around the thin shoulders. Oh, well, he'd his church best at home, he couldn't wear more than one at a time anyway, the old man reasoned.

"Now come along, we'll make it to the station in good time to get you settled," locking up the office and putting the Closed sign in the window, though it wasn't closing time yet. He'd hear about this later, most likely, but wasn't going to worry about it now; now, he had a mission.

True to his charge, the train man had alerted Peter to the coming stop. The man had seemed annoyed when Peter had approached him at first, then puzzled, finally intrigued when he saw the name and the symbol on the paper. He wondered just what connection this Brit in the patched together remains of a RAF uniform might have with that area; it was beyond the beyond, and while they'd let off shipments of materials and supplies there before, he'd rarely had anyone actually go there, only some rare bit of travel by the few locals. Still and all, none of his business, get him off the train and let him be someone else's worry.

He hustled Peter off the train, onto the platform, feeling the warmth of fever arising from his body, smelling the slight stench of sickness. {"Hopefully someone's to meet him; doesn't look like he's got much left in him to manage on his own."}

Of course, there was no one, and Peter stood on the cold windy train platform, confused with himself. Why had he come here, what was he so urgently seeking? He didn't know anymore, couldn't think. Seeing the door in front of him, he opened it and stumbled into a small room, heat from a black potbellied stove drawing him like a moth to a flame. Holding out his hands toward the shimmers rising above the stove, he looked vacantly around. A bulky man in sweater and woolen pants came in through another door, carrying a load of wood.

"What, who be you? Did ye get off the train by mistake?" he growled. This was a stranger. Strangers didn't come here, strangers weren't welcome here.

Blinking, trying to think, Peter reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out the piece of paper with the name of the village and its strange symbol, and showed it to the man. The man looked at it and his scowl became deeper.

"Well?"

Peter lowered his head, then slowly raised it, "I need to get 'ome. No,' he said, with a troubled frown, 'that's not exactly right. I need to get to 'aven, then I'll be 'ome."

A slight woman, bundled in many layers, was standing at the outside door. "Davie, what did he say?"

"Said he had to get to Haven. What's the likes of you know about Haven? That's no place for you," he said bristling.

The woman raised her voice slightly, "that's not for you, nor for me, to say, Davie Rhys." She walked closer, looking up into the face of the obviously ill soldier; she touched his face, drawn by the heavy flush on his cheeks, strange when matched with the pallor elsewhere on his thin drawn face, and drew in a sharp breath at the heat under her hand.

"Hitch up the team, bring the cart around. Put blankets in the back. We need to get this lad up there; they'll know what to do. And no arguing with me. You want to face herself if he really belongs up there and we don't help him?"

He barely remembered being hoisted into the back of the cart, being bundled in blankets; he dozed fitfully during the journey. Later he'd find out the trip probably took about thirty minutes, but at the time he'd no idea, time didn't seem to mean anything anymore. Finally, they pulled to a stop. Faintly he felt the cart jostle as if someone was either getting down or up, but it didn't seem to concern him, so he stayed motionless in the back. Then, an arm was reached up to him, taking him by the shoulder, urging him down and to his feet.

"Inside with you, we'll see what she makes of you coming here."


	2. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never a day passed without thoughts and prayers for their Peter, the much beloved man still so far away. For Maudie, for Marisol, and certainly for Caeide, each day was a preparation for the time when he'd come home again, and when he showed up on their doorstep, sick and lost, home was there waiting for him. It wouldn't be easy, but THEY were there for him.

Caeide had just banked the fire in the big front room for the night. Her bath was waiting for her upstairs, and she was more than ready to sink into it. The water would be warm, and the extra pail of hot water fresh off the stove she'd just sent up in the dumbwaiter would be used to make it very enticing indeed. It had been a long day, she was chilled and tired, but everything that had needed to be done had been done, and she'd be able to start fresh tomorrow. Sometimes the weather or circumstances prevented that from happening, and she always felt gratified when things worked smoothly, when she wasn't already behind when she woke up. She heard Old Maude moving around in the kitchen, setting the bread to rise; Marisol was checking the storeroom to see what they'd need to order from the Clan.

Having Maude and Marisol here was such a blessing for her; of course, to hear them tell it, the blessings were all on the other side. After one of their long discussions, they'd all admitted, "maybe we are blessings for each other." She loved these two women, both mentors from her internship year in London. When she'd heard of the bombing that destroyed their part of the city, she'd sent her brother to try and locate them. She knew they had no family other than each other, and she'd offered them a place here. "Tell them, there's a place at the hearth, a warm bed, food aplenty. I'd be honored if they'd come, join me," she'd told her brothers. The offer was humbly made and gladly accepted, and now they formed a family together.

{"There'd been another mentor, but he was far away now. Maybe soon I'll hear word that he'd been released from the camp, where he'd been a prisoner yet not a prisoner."} A day never passed without her thinking of him, sending prayers for his safety his way. She might never see him again, there was no real reason their paths would cross again; he might have his own way planned out, in place, together with his brothers from the camp. She had hopes, of course; his visits, and those from young Andrew, unconventional though they might have been, more dream than anything else, though astonishingly real, seemed to point to the possibility. But surely, if nothing else, once he returned home, he'd write, let her know he was okay; they'd written back and forth ever since that year in London, her regularly, him more sporadically, seven years and more of letters.

No news now, not for at least two months, but seems that was the norm with the state of the war. The dream visits had ceased; she thought that might be due to lack of energy, perhaps lack of time to even sleep, if they were being kept busy with their endeavors. Even her contact in London HQ seemed to have no current information on the Unsung Heroes, that group of prisoners acting, as Peter told her during their rare meetings in the intervening years, as a "combined sabotage, espionage, and travelers aid society."

He and his team had the radio frequency to contact the Clan for help if need be, had already done so twice, but Hogan was probably too stubborn to take that route again (he'd been angry when the team had done so before, once when he'd been on a detached assignment, and his team in distress, and with London failing them,not that they'd had much choice; again when his command team had been captured and himself wounded, when Andrew had defied the orders and called out to them).

She'd never understood his jealousy; he was the one with the opportunity to strengthen the closeness, the loving that was there; instead, he elected to focus outward, on a possible rival, letting it all get twisted around, rather on letting what they had grow so that Peter would WANT no one else. At one time she'd thought Hogan smart enough to see that, to put the rest aside to ensure that, but she'd started seeing more of an awareness in the lanky Brit, a knowledge of what Hogan could be.

Truthfully, now, it wasn't herself she thought Hogan had as a rival; hopefully, Hogn never discovered who that rival was, not while they were all there at that camp. The other one she felt was much better for Peter than Hogan, the loving more genuine, more selfless, and she hoped for its fruition. No matter what other place Peter held in her heart, he was her mentor and her friend; for those reasons alone she was willing to provide aid, aid without strings or obligations. 

Sighing deeply, she brought her thoughts back to Haven. Now, just what did she have on the schedule to do tomorrow? She'd have to look at her notes again, she'd allowed herself to become distracted.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the knock at the door. She frowned; it was late, well after dark, and people didn't come visiting that time of day, not unless there was trouble of some sort. She took the revolver from her desk, and slid it under the waist of her skirt, nestled along her spine; her narrow blade was in the sewn-in sheath at the side him of her shirt. She tapped the small bell on the desk twice, alerting the other two woman that someone was coming; they'd be finding their own weapons, just in case.

She moved to the door, calling out, "yes, who is it?" in a strong voice.

"Davie Rhys, m'am, from the Station. Have someone what says he belongs here; never seen him before, a stranger, but the wife thought we'd best be sure, before we sent him on his way."

Frowning, she pulled open the door; the station master moved into the room, drawing impatiently along with him a familiar figure, unsteady on his feet, wavering. No, no stranger, her heart! Her own heart, standing before her! She felt the pulse pounding in her head, as she whispered, as tears filled her eyes, "yes, Davie Rhys, he belongs here, and he's no stranger. Thank you for your help; I'll see you are well repaid for your trouble."

Rhys, knowing he'd been if not dismissed, at least forgotten for the moment, bobbed his cap, and made his way back out the door, closing it firmly behind him. {"Well, what about that! The wife was right, sure enough,"} he muttered to himself as he clicked his tongue to get his horse moving along home.

"Maude, Marisol," she shouted, "come quickly, I need you." She threw herself forward, just as Peter started to go down. She kept him from hitting the floor; she was strong from working with the large stock and in the fields, and she was appalled at how little there was of him now, even as much taller than she as he was. Always thin, now skin over bones, that's all she could feel in her arms.

Maude and Marisol ran into the room, stopping, shocked, to see her on her knees, holding their lost one, clinging to him as to the last hope. Tears came to both of them, tears they blinked through, knowing that now was not the time for them to give way, that their lad was home, and needed their help.

Marisol collected another pail of hot water from the stove, sending it upstairs in the dumbwater to the hallway above. Anything else would wait, but they had to get him warmed; though his face burned with fever, his body was far too cold.

Maude quickly made her way to the medicine stores; the boy always had been prone to lung problems; the special tea they brewed from their own herbs would be needed, she was sure, it was what the girl had used in London that year when she'd feared they would lose him, and she put the kettle on to boil, setting the herbs on the counter to be brewed later. Caeide worked on rousing him, at least to the point where he could stay upright, with all their help, to make it up the stairs. His gaze was unfocused, but he cooperated with her, and the others were back in but a few minutes, raising him up, supporting him, as they slowly, painfully made their way up to the living quarters. {"If I'd any idea of this, I'd have gone ahead with our plans to make guest quarters down here below,"} and though that made sense, somehow she was glad they hadn't done so.

They paused at the top of the stairs to get a better grasp, then, without even thinking about it, brought him into Caeide's room. Later she'd wonder at that, but then thought, {"it only made sense, warm bath waiting, bed turned back, fireplace lit and the room warm. My room opens onto the office, with the couch that can be used for a caretaker to take breaks, comfortable armchair next to the bed, sturdy table nearby."} If she'd thought about it, she'd have realized she had patterned the setup of these rooms on what she'd learned when he'd been so ill in London, when she'd learned what was needed to care for him. She didn't stop to realize there were more reasons than that, that the other two women realized this was where he belonged, where he (and she) would need for him to be, at least for awhile. She didn't stop to consider, and the decision was taken out of her hands, and she was content for it to be so.

Marisol started to pour the hot water into the tub, but Maude stopped her. "As chilled as he is, the water is better just as it is. As he warms up, we can add the hot, a little at a time." She saw the wisdom of that as they stripped his clothes away, felt just how cold he really was. {"Oh dear God, how wasted he is, and the scars! Those bruises, so many of them, those are recent; the bullet wound in the shoulder is older, but showing signs of infection."} Together, they lowered him gently into the warm water, keeping his shoulder clear.

Maude thought later that perhaps she should have been expected to send Caeide away, just have the two older women care for him, then dismissed that as utter nonsense. He needed all of them, indeed it would take all of them to bring him through this, and she couldn't imagine Caeide would have listened to her, anyway. It wouldn't be the first time any of them had seen him naked; she doubted it'd be the last; they'd nursed him thru more than one illness. She'd known how the young woman felt about this man, this boy Maude thought of as a son, ever since the two had crossed paths. She'd seen Caeide fight for his life before, halfway thru that year in London, angry that he'd been threatened, injured, fiercely determined that he live; she'd seen the young woman put herself in front of a knife to protect him later that year; he'd have no greater champion than her now, though Maude and Marisol would fight alongside her for his life, as they had before.

As his skin warmed, they were able to add more of the warmer water, til Maude decided he had derived all the benefit he could for now. They carefully raised him up; he was totally beyond helping himself by then; got him dried and bustled into the bed with its warmed sheets and heaping covers, now dressed in a warm flannel shirt one of the brothers had left behind. Rested him against the stacked pillows, knowing he'd not be able to breathe if left lying down.

Maude watched from the end of the bed, Marisol tended the fire, Caeide sat on the edge of the bed, watching his face for any sign of returning consciousness. She was rewarded when his eyelids fluttered open and he looked around him, blankly. Slowly focusing, he saw Marisol first, then Maude, wonderingly, tilting his head, he saw Caeide.

"'I've come 'ome?" he breathed.

"Yes, love, you've come home," she said strongly, with a reassuring smile. He returned her smile, as best he could, and relaxed into sleep. The three women looked at each other, with determination in their eyes; yes, it would take all of them, but he'd have everything he needed from them, to heal, to find his footing again.


	3. Lost in the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever Peter had truly needed him, Andrew had been there, always. How could anyone who knew them think this time would be any different?

"Bloody 'ell, I'm cold! Where are they? Where is 'E? Should 'ave met up with them a full bloody three days ago! No sign of Kraut patrols, no gunfire, no explosions, nothing. Ain't seen another living soul the whole bleedin' time I've been out 'ere!"

Trudging through snow up to his knees wasn't how Peter Newkirk enjoyed spending his time; he hated being cold, he hated being wet, and the fact that he was also hungry and exhausted didn't help his mood any. Add to that, he couldn't find his team mates. His part of the job was completed, though he was having trouble remembering just what that job or his part of it intailed. Now, he was supposed to meet up with the others; that had been the last order, and he was trying to obey that order, not because he was much given to obeying orders in the general scheme of things, but because he was bloody well worried about them! but they were nowhere to be found. He thought about calling to them, but figured that was too dangerous, could bring the enemy down on all of them.

So he searched, looking for signs anyone had passed through here. One by one he had stopped searching for them, though; it was just too much effort, and he was so tired. Now, he searched only for the one he HAD to find. That was the only thing remaining in his mind now, finding Andrew. Andrew was his responsibility, his to keep safe; Peter had taken that job on almost the moment the naive and clumsy young American soldier had entered the camp, those puppy dog eyes and chattery manner casting a spell he'd never admit, would deny fervently if challenged, but had to acknowledge to himself at least. He was muttering to himself now, "clumsy git! Probly fell over a leaf or a twig and got bunged up. Never make it back on 'is own, 'e won't."

And he kept searching, headed farther and farther into the blowing snow and wind, feeling the ice starting to form on his shabby coat, freezing his hair into icy strands. "'Ave to find 'im, 'e'll freeze to death out in this," now repeating those words in a hoarse whisper, getting colder and colder. When turning in a circle to see in all directions, he'd seen a light, far behind him, and somehow he knew he could find shelter there if he turned and went that way now while he still had some strength left, but there was Andrew, out here somewhere, and he knew he couldn't head toward that shelter without finding the one he was searching for. He stumbled and fell, got to his feet slowly, moved on a few steps, and fell again. This time he didn't get back up, but lay there, as the snow gradually dimmed his outline, started to cover him.

**

The fever just got worse and worse, and nothing they could think of was helping. They'd thought him starting to mend somewhat, enough he was able to get down some small bits of food, broth and bread and such, and coming out of that initial daze, beginning to recognize where he was. They'd known it would be a long hard road, but the sudden setback, the raging fever, it caught them all by surprise. Now, the thought had crossed each of their minds, whether he'd been gone so long, fought so hard to survive, to get home, only to perish now that he'd gotten to safety.

None of them were getting much sleep, alternating shifts. All had fallen to the wayside except for the caring for the stock, which was something that could NOT be neglected, not with the creatures depending on them. Well, depending on Caeide, who handled that, leaving them to watch and care for the man while she did what needed to be done, then her catching a very few hours sleep, taking over the watching and tending in early evening til she left the house again in the wee hours to head up to the stock barn with one of the others taking their turn again.

Michael had flown in, and left penicillin and such that they didn't keep handy, but had no promising words for them, the source of the fever not being so apparent. The penicillin was in case it was a deep seated infection not so easy to see, but he didn't give them great hopes for it resolving the problem. "Perhaps just an accumulation of all he's undergone; I've seen that, you know, in some of those who've come back. There are so many old injuries, so many traces of past illnesses, that when the external threat is past, it all just comes together and can be more than a body can overcome." Those were NOT words he wanted to speak to his younger sister and the other two women, and he knew the loss, if Peter was unable to fight this, well, it would be overwhelming for them all. Caeide, he knew, would not survive his death; would not, as she had Bonded to him so many years ago - would not WANT to, he thought, even if it had been possible.

"Support him, care for him, talk to him, give him a reason to come back, to fight - that's all I can recommend at this point," he told them reluctantly.

Well, the other thing he recommended, put into place himself with one call to the Clan Grandmother, seeing the state of exhaustion all three, but particularly his sister was in - two of the older cousins came, both experienced from working at a similar enclave and took over the outside work totally, leaving Caeide to stay at his side anytime she wasn't catching some much needed sleep. Even then, that sleeping was on a small sofa pulled close to his bed, and it seemed to her that even in her sleep she was gazing on that feverish face, watching his labored breathing.

And each time before she lay down, she set the smudges, inhaled the herbs, so that in her sleep she walked the Moon Paths, searching, pleading for help for him, the one who had finally come home, the one who so desperately needed help now. Sometimes she thought she saw her Warrior there, but only at a distance, too far away to speak with, much less touch. The link between them had weakened, almost to being non-existent, after all the Warrior had done to try to keep Peter and Andrew safe, and she'd never begrudged that, not for one bit, even though it still felt like pieces of her were missing. Her Wolf had only manifested once since then, too, and she had resigned herself to being only a fraction of what she'd once been. Still, none of that was important; only he was important, and she focused on searching for answers, for aid.

And as she walked, the tears crept down her cheeks, and she didn't bother to wipe them away, letting them fall to the Path under her feet as an offering to any who might help, such things being considered precious in that realm. When the words came, whispering to her, she listened, and nodded, knowing she was given no promises, just a possible hope, and she contented herself with that; well, with that, and the knowledge if he walked the Long Walk, he wouldn't walk it alone, that she would be not a step behind him, to ensure he wouldn't be alone again.

She'd made arrangements with her people, that her other two friends here would be cared for, and that the others Peter cared for and who truly cared for him - his sister, Andrew, Kinch, Louie - would be given a helping hand if one was needed. She'd already started the search through Shjean and his team; his sister had been located and was in a safe place; she knew Andrew and Kinch and Hogan had returned safely home, though they had not yet located Louie what with the state of things in France. Haven would be cared for, as well, and so, she made herself content that she'd done all she could do.

When she slept, Maude or Mari would tend him, keep watch from the big arm chair, talking to him til their throats were ready to close from the effort, and perhaps also from the effort to keep the tears at bay. They listened to his soft urgent mutterings, nothing intelligible, just enough discernable to know he was looking for something, maybe someone, in the midst of his fevered dreams. And from the young woman, they heard murmurs just as soft, just as formless, as if in answer, or perhaps in prayer. They would exchange glances, worry, despair fighting for top place, and then look at that lit candle in the window, the one Caeide had placed there two nights ago, insisting it stay there, stay lit, insisting that it be replaced when it came anywhere close to guttering, and the new be in place before the old extinguished. They hadn't wanted to argue with her, not as urgent as she'd been, but just helped her remove the curtains from that window, and the small rug from in front, to lessen the danger of fire. Somehow, that candle, it had come to represent hope to all of them, a last desperate hope.

**

If you were to describe Mr. Perkins, proprietor and owner of Perkins Drugstore, you would first and foremost have called him methodical. Not kind, for he didn't believe in 'coddling' anyone. He'd always considered himself a sternly fair man, though quite a sharp one in a bargain as properly befitted a man of business. He felt he'd made his own way by diligence and hard work and never giving in to weakness or self-indulgence, and expected others to follow the same course, but most of all he put his success down to being disciplined and having a set routine. He left his house at precisely the same time each day the store was open, brought exactly the same home-packed lunch with him which he ate at precisely 11:45, left the store at precisely the same time at close of business. Certain things were done on certain days. Certainly his Sunday was as crisply organized as any other day - walked to church for services, taught Sunday School for the youngsters, met with church board afterwards, had luncheon with his widowed sister (and woe betide her if she dared to try a different menu than the one he was expecting), then home again to read scripture til time for a light meal before bed. No one knew what he did on Wednesday mornings when the drugstore didn't open til 1:00, but they expected he had a certain routine there as well. They could hardly imagine him lazing around in bed or doing anything unexpected or spontaneous!

Perkins Drugstore was a highly organized place, as you might expect; Mr. Perkins had always kept it that way, expected anyone working for him to follow his lead. The small store window had six displays a year; always the same, exactly, changed on exactly the same days of the year as well. The items used in the display were now very old, very faded, but they were the same, carefully stored away each year in the same big boxes for use the next time it was their turn; on the underside of the lid was a diagram of precisely where each item was to be placed in that window, as well as how they were to be stored in the box when not in use.

Inside the store, the salt was where the salt had always been; the coffee as well. Potatoes were in that far bin, onions in the nearest one. Soup sat on that third shelf over, crackers right along side. During the war, when he couldn't keep some things stocked, well, the space sat there empty, waiting for the day it would be filled with its appropriate item. Nothing was allowed to stray into that spot; that just wouldn't have been right. If that meant new items never came onto the shelves, well, so be it; people didn't need all those newfangled things they saw or read about in the magazines anyway! He prided himself on the fact that, during that big storm and they'd all lost electricity, he'd been able to find just about anything anyone was looking for on those shelves, even in the dark. They might have ended up with chicken soup instead of tomato, but by golly, they ended up with soup, and they should be satisfied with that!

He'd thought he had impressed that on young Carter before the boy had left for the war, the requirement for organization, and even on his return, it seemed like his lessons had been remembered. Now, as of the past couple of days, it seemed like Andrew J Carter had forgotten it all!

Mr. Perkins looked with dismay at the toothpowder now shelved next to the tins of bug repellent, and glanced over to where he could see the cans of soup next to the cans of motor oil. He still hadn't found where the crackers had ended up, {"probably in the cold box!"}

Fuming he started the search for his so-called assistant, wondering if he'd been right in giving the young man his old job back. Of course, it had been the right thing to do for a returning soldier, and he didn't have to pay the boy much, AND the cousins had pretty well insisted on it. (And since one of the cousins held that last little bit of his mortgage, as well as the both of them being rather unpleasant to deal with when crossed, well, he thought it was best not to argue.). {"Guess they didn't want him to be depending on them for charity; they'd let it be known there's nothing left from the house or land."}

Mr. Perkins had even let young Andrew have that tiny storeroom upstairs, the one at the near end that had been sitting vacant since it was too inconvenient to use anymore because of those narrow steps and that sharp turn at the top and wouldn't have held much anyway; outfitted it with a small bed for him, even, that had been sitting in his sister's basement. Of course, he took back a part of Andrew's weekly wages for that. Otherwise it would have been charity, and he didn't hold with that any more than the cousins did. Charity weakened a person, made them morally lax; well, everyone knew that!

In fact, he felt rather proud of thinking of doing that, letting him have that space, that is, since otherwise it was sitting empty, and it was to the boy's benefit after all; the heat from the store drifted up and warmed the place somewhat, and there weren't any places around town that could be rented for less. He sat aside the knowledge that all of those places were much bigger, much nicer and probably had windows and perhaps a place to prepare meals and such! After all, convenience to the place you worked was a major benefit and one not to be scoffed at. And him living here, well, Mr. Perkins could keep a fatherly eye on the boy and make sure he didn't fall into slothful or wicked ways! 

"Andrew??! Andrew J Carter, where have you gotten yourself to?? I have things to do other than go looking for you, you know," and he came to a sudden stop at the sight of the pale, brown haired young man sitting slumped on the steps to the second floor. He frowned, "you alright, Andrew? You're not sickening for something, now are you?"

Mr. Perkins certainly didn't want to be calling in the doctor; after all, Dr. Fleming didn't do charity work, and rightly so in Mr. Perkins opinion. Well, HE surely wasn't going to pay for the house call, and he knew Andrew didn't have the money, and the cousins for certain weren't going to be taking the toll.

Bright fevered eyes looked up at him out of a too pale face, "oh, hi, Mr. Perkins. I guess I just don't feel so good." That got him a frown, and a fast glance at his watch. {"Hmm, 2:30, we close at 5:00. Oh, well."}

He heaved a deep exasperated sigh, one that had Andrew looking up at him suddenly, hopefully, as if expecting to see someone else standing there. The boy's head dropped again in disappointment when he found only Mr. Perkins at the end of his gaze.

"Alright, Andrew. Better take the rest of the day off and get yourself to bed. Got that big sale coming up Wednesday; can't have you moping around with all the customers coming in! And you'll need to get things put in their proper places before then, too! Can't imagine what you were thinking! Have people brushing their teeth with ant powder afore we know it!" and he watched as Andrew pulled himself slowly to his feet and up the steps to his room. 

Andrew didn't know what was wrong with him; he was hot and cold all at once, and so tired he could hardly stand, but with the overwhelming feeling that there was something important he needed to be doing, something he HAD to be doing, and right away. He kept getting a glimpse of something, someone, out of the corner of his eye, but when he'd turn his head to look, they'd be gone, and he'd get dizzy from the effort. Still, he could see her, and yes, he knew it was a her, and he knew he knew her, but his mind just couldn't wrap itself around the details.

Somehow, this didn't seem like he was getting a cold or the flu; this seemed more of a, well, spiritual illness, though that wasn't something he could have said to Mr. Perkins, his cousins or really anyone else in this town, not anymore. Back in North Dakota, yeah, he could have gone to the Shaman for help, maybe some of the others on the res, but not here.

It was hard thinking, but he finally pulled himself together enough to make his way quietly down those rickety back steps that led to the alley. He'd made himself a spot, years ago; a place to meditate, a place to become whole again when people, things, life itself tried to pull him into separate little pieces; he just hoped no one had found it, that it was still there waiting for him. He found the little cave and the clearing in front of it, and was relieved when he saw no evidence of anyone having been there since his last visit, before he left for the war. Like always, he'd left it ready for his next visit, so the smudges were there, and the dried wood for a fire, and everything else. And so he went about the preparation as he'd been taught, and started the ceremony, sipping the tea, inhaling the herbs.

 

"Peter? Hey, Peter, whatcha you doing out here? Geezo, let's get this snow offa you. Come on, stand up now, buddy!"

Hot fevered eyes met his, and two cold hands clutched at his collar, "Andrew? Bloody 'ell, Andrew, been looking everywhere for you! Couldn't find you, couldn't find the others. Supposed to meet up, we were; where'd you get off to?"

Andrew clutched the half-frozen figure in his arms, looking around frantically for some shelter, some help, anything. He could see a light in the distance, and knew that was where he, they had to head.

"Yeah, buddy, I know," patting his friend's shoulder. "Army got it all bolluxed up, separating us and all. Come on, Peter. We gotta keep moving, gotta get someplace warm." And slowly, him half supporting the staggering figure of his best friend, they made their way toward that light.

And as they stumbled along, Andrew saw that figure again, motioning to him, urging him on with his task, and now he knew her, and he smiled and nodded at her, the one who'd given so much to try and protect them those last few months. He didn't understand, though, why SHE'D not just helped Peter, why she had sent for him, and he heard her answering him, inside of his head. *"It wasn't ME he was searching for, the one he needed so to find, twas you. He'd not have returned to safety with my urgings; that required you, just as it will require your convincing him to stay where he's wanted and loved and safe, where he'll be cared for til he heals again. Otherwise, he'll reach out, follow after you, he will, not understanding this is not the way to find you, and he'll only get lost again, perhaps not to be found in time. You have to make him understand that, convince him to be patient; that the time is not yet for him to find you. Can you do that, Andrew, for him? Even if it means you being alone for awhile longer, perhaps a goodly while longer, maybe even til the next cycle?"* And the sympathetic look in her eyes told him she knew just how hard that was, him being alone. And while he didn't know what she mean by 'the next cycle', well there was only one answer he could give, wasn't there?? And so he could only blink at her and tell her the truth, just as it seemed he'd perhaps done once before, "well, geeze, anything I need to do! I'd do anything for him, you know that!" And her warm, big-sisterly smile and equally warm chuckle told him that she did indeed know that, and appreciated that.

And when Peter blinked down at him and asked, "what're you nattering on about, Andrew? Who're you talking to?" the smaller man just smiled comfortingly, "just a friend, Peter, just a friend," and if the tall Brit frowned in confusion, looking around at the empty snow-filled space surrounding them, he didn't question again, just let himself be led toward that light.

They reached the open space in front of that big house, the house with the candle shining brightly in the upstairs window. "Hey, Peter, we're here. Come on, let's get you someplace warm," he urged and together they passed through that front door.

Andrew was a little startled that passing through the door didn't require them actually opening it; they just sort of oozed through, then up those wide wooden stairs to the doorway on the right. This room, it was familiar to both of them, and they paused at the sight that lay before them.

Three women, the young red-haired one sitting on the edge of the bed, one much older in the armchair, another, a tall blond woman half-way between the two in age, taking a fresh candle from the drawer in preparation for switching it out with the one burning low in the candlestick on the windowsill. Andrew drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the sickness-ravaged man laying in that big bed, flushed and breathing so heavily, and turned to the bewildered man he was still supporting with one arm.

"Not sure how we do this, buddy, but you've got to sort of, well, get yourself back together. You just kinda got lost from each other," he told the Peter he held so close to him.

"Andrew? I was looking for you. Will you stay?" came the whisper, accompanied by frightened pleading in those blue-green eyes.

Andrew smiled at his best friend, remembering what the Warrior had told him, "I can't, not right now, Peter. It's not the right time, and don't you come looking for me again, not like this anyway. I'm back home, working for Mr. Perkins. If you want to find me, you'll find me there. But do it the right way, write me or call me or something, not by wandering off like this again, do you hear me?" and Andrew's voice was as stern as Peter had ever heard it.

"Andrew, mate? I need you, I love you," Peter implored, and Andrew's heart clenched at those words.

"And I love you too, and I need you just as much. But we do it the right way, no wandering about like this again! You promise me!"

And Peter gave a reluctant nod, "yes, alright, I promise. But if I do it the right way? Then, maybe?"

And Andrew gave that wide, lopsided grin that Peter would never forget, "you do it the right way, then maybe," and Peter sighed, and looked toward the bed, and then he was gone. Andrew froze, almost panicking for a moment, til he saw the Warrior standing there, with a smile on her face, nodding at him reassuringly.

"Good job, Andrew, you did a good job. Now, it's time to go home, at least for now. Go home and try to be patient."

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to do that, either part of that, and while he was thinking it over, he saw Caeide turn and he knew she saw him and her eyes widened. He grinned, gave her a triumphant thumbs-up, and whispered, "take care of him, okay?"

And the tears started in her eyes, and she whispered, "I promise," and with that, Andrew drew a deep breath and stretched, flexing his sore muscles, cramped from sitting in that position in front of that little cave for so long. He tidied things away, preparing them for the next time they'd be needed, and made his way back to that alley, up those rickety steps and crawled into bed. He sighed in exhausion, but also smiled in exhilaration, "next time, we do it the right way, Peter. I'll wait for that, I promise!" and he turned over and went to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, he frowned, wondering, knowing he'd had strange dreams but couldn't remember any of them, wondered where and how the other guys were, where and how Peter was. And he sighed, got dressed and went down to the store below, there to receive his chewing out for getting things all mixed-up and continued with his life as it now was. Somehow, he could do that; something was coming, something good, though he didn't know what, but for now, he just had to carry on. Carry on and wait.

"Mari, you can leave the candle go," Caeide said softly, and the tall blonde woman turned sharply, dismay evident in her face.

"You've not given up . . ." only to see the radiant smile on the younger woman's face, only to look and see the moisture coating HIS face, seeing his chest not heaving, trying to get his breath, but gently moving in a natural sleep.

"Blessed be, the fever's broken," Maude whispered, and tears came to her eyes, as it did to the others.

Caeide smiled, letting those tears course down her face, as they had on the Moon Paths, "aye, now he can mend."

And later, when the others had gone to their beds to rest, she pulled the armchair close and curled up in it, and thinking of her Warrior, thinking of young Andrew, she whispered into the night, "blessings on you both, and my eternal thanks." And she knew that as soon as Peter was out of danger, she'd continue that search for news about Andrew and the others, that she might have word of them when he was ready, willing to hear.

And she'd start preparing a place, at least planning out a place, for the time when young Andrew would join them here; she truly believed that would happen, and she watched the sleeping face of the man in that big bed, and smiled, "I'll do whatever I can, love, to help make that happen," for she knew he'd never be truly content without his Andrew at his side, and unknowingly she repeated the words Andrew had spoken earlier, "anything I need to do; I'd do anything for him!"


	4. The Battle Rages On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battles came, one after another, some external, some internal. And, Peter being Peter, sometimes help had to be given in spite of his stubborn pride. Perhaps it's their fresh outlook that lets Coura and Douglas see more than the others can see into the real source of Peter's anger and frustration with himself, the source of that contempt with which he views himself in the mirror. But can their fresh outlook help provide a solution? Well, maybe it's a start, along with the new insights it's given the ladies of the household.

The infection in his shoulder had finally been defeated; the lungs finally totally clear, possibly for the first time since he'd been shot down in Germany, though they'd keep an eye on that, him never being particularly healthy in that area. Growing up with the coal tars of the East End, and the cigarettes, and the repeated infections over the long years, well, he wouldn't be, of course. He was stronger now, able to move about the upper rooms more freely as long as he took it slow and didn't make any sudden turns; he was even able to manage the stairs if he was very careful, though always with either Marisol or Caeide at his side for that more demanding effort. He'd tried it once by himself, and had managed only two steps before he felt himself going down; he'd sat there for several minutes before he could overcome his pride enough to call for help. He was gaining some weight, Maude tempting his appetite with things his stomach could both tolerate and relish, only tiny amounts at a time at the first; while he had a considerable way to go before getting back up to even the admittedly thin frame he'd carried before the war, at least he was no longer skin over skeleton. The salves and poltices were helping him regain some of the old agility in his hands and to lessen the severity of the pulling of his scars, though the several times daily application of those, the need for their hands on him, was now becoming hard for him to tolerate. However, physically, yes, they could see, he could see he was making considerable strides, and they were confident progress would continue.

In other areas, though, the battle raged on. The dreams, the nightmares, they were still with him, perhaps even more as his body moved away from the pure survival mode. Caeide slept on the sofa pulled close to the bed; he was uncomfortable with her sleeping beside him, he'd told her; said he couldn't sleep, couldn't rest that way, even after his shoulder had healed enough that wouldn't have jarred him, but when the nightmares would hit, every night, sometimes several times a night, he would want her there, reach for her, so she made sure to stay close, never letting herself fall into a deep sleep where she might not hear him when the nightmares started. She would curl up next to him, hold him, whisper to him til he awakened, stroke the sweat from his face and chest with a damp cloth, and sooth him til his breathing eased, til he pulled away from her touch, and she would go back to her covers, trying to get some rest before the next call would come in the night, or before she had to rise and take care of the stock. As she was leaving, she'd find Maude or Marisol coming in to take her place, since she left in the early pre-dawn, and his nightmares could still come in those early hours. 

He wanted to scream at himself constantly, between his desperate need to touch, to be touched, and his flinching away from touching and being touched. He'd pushed her out of the bed, unable to stand the closeness, yet reached for her when the panic set in.

It made no sense to him; her closeness revulsed him, yet he longed for her. He had finally figured it out, luckily before he expressed that disgust too clearly, in words that couldn't be taken back, words he thought she might never be able to forgive, or perhaps words he'd never be able to forgive himself for saying; he'd finally realized, it wasn't her he was revulsed by, disgusted by, it was himself.

He looked at her, her loving, patient face, her strong, clean young body, and compared it to himself. He remembered how he'd been when she was with him in London, in his mind saw the strength and grace and ease he'd been accustomed to seeing in himself back then; saw the differences caused by time, by war, by privation, by abuse and torture, and was disgusted at the thought of someone like him touching someone like her. He thought she must be equally disgusted at the necessity for touching him, though she hid it well. Even her gentleness with him, her kindness, the softness in her eyes when she looked at him, her sweet words, all that should have clearly bespoken her love for him, he couldn't accept that as real.

"This isn't what she bargained for, this isn't what she wanted. What I was, perhaps, yes, with time that might have been possible, but this?" he told himself, looking with deadened eyes in the long pier glass in the bedroom. The scars, the weathered and hardened face, the gray in the hair that shouldn't have been there for many a year, those roughened and cramped fingers. More than that, even, he looked beneath the body, to the violence and death he had seen, had been responsible for in some cases, things he'd had to do to survive and keep his teammates alive, things he'd had to endure. No, this wasn't the man she and her family claimed she'd Bonded with that year; this was a stranger, and not a good or benevolent one.

She had welcomed him, offered him comfort, shelter, welcoming arms, but he felt he was taking all that under false pretenses. "She intended all that for 'IM, the one she remembered, not me, not what I am now, whatever that may be. She's making the best of a bad bargain, living up to what she'd promised back then, when she and 'er people said she'd Bonded to me; well, maybe she 'ad, I never knew whether to believe, or whether I wanted to believe that, but if so, it wasn't to me, this stranger she made that Bond. The one she Bonded to, 'e don't exist anymore;" He didn't know who or what that man in the mirror was, but he knew he had little to do with that young man she'd known in London.

He'd leave, he promised himself, as soon as he was fit enough. He didn't know where he'd go, London held no promise anymore, any welcome. He'd just come to the uneasy realization that, in his fever, he'd just left after getting off the ship, hadn't gone through the debriefing that would be expected of one of Hogan's crew, even through the more common one expected of any returning soldier. He remembered, as well, that ever so successful mission where they'd foxed the German Propaganda people, the one where it'd had to look like he was a traitor; he'd learned well enough from his fellow Brits on that truck headed for the ship, and on the ship as well, that many believed that to be a true state of affairs. He expected any welcome he received in London would be a difficult one at best. Still, he had to leave, didn't he? But where would he go?

They knew it wouldn't be an easy battle; he'd never been an easy patient when he was ill. Well, okay, that wasn't exactly the best way to describe him, Maude and Marisol agreed; he'd always been totally impossible to tend when he was ill! Yes, that was more like it. He whined and moped, raged when he though he was been fussed over and babied; alternated between pouting and yelling if he though he was being ignored or neglected. Bouts of depression, waves of melancolia, refusal to cooperate with those trying to care for him. All that was painfully familiar to them; they each had plenty of experience with that from their London days, from the early days when he'd become like a son and brother to them. Caeide had experienced her own share of that from her Internship year. This, though, this was beyond anything they'd experienced before, and it was a strain on them trying to figure out ways to care for him properly without doing harm.

In addition to that, the work at Haven still had to be done, the stock still had to be cared for, the gardens and the fields, the harvesting and preserving of food, the gathering and storing of firewood, all that was still there to be done. The three of them sat down daily, deciding what HAD to be done, what SHOULD be done but maybe they could let slide to the next day or the next week, what should just be written off as a loss for this time - all around the primary task, the most important task on their minds right now, the caring for this loved one returned to them, so in need of their help, their care, yet having such difficulty accepting. 

Caeide hesitated to call in help from the Clan, thinking having strangers about would just make things that much more difficult for Peter, knowing the Clan had their hands full as well, but finally listened to her brothers when they insisted she do just that. Both doctors they were, Michael and Patrick, and had been willing, eager to come to help with Peter when he'd first come home, and returned on occasion to see his progress, help as they could, but they couldn't stay; they had other duties and responsibilities; they were helping to care for the wounded who'd returned in such appalling numbers, in such appalling condition. Both of them saw how exhausted the women were becoming, knew they'd not stop, not slight his care in the least, and the brothers knew it was time to ask for help. And, as always in the Clan, help was given.

They came, first just the four, Cally, Daen, Covel, cousins of varying ages, Douglas her younger brother, later his twin sister Coura arriving as well to take the place of Covel who was needed elsewhere, spending part of their time at the house, more at the old cottage, helping in the fields, the gardens, working with the stock, freeing up the hands and time of the three women of the household to tend him, so that one could be available to him at all times.

No, they tried not to hover, the women, but one was committed to remaining within earshot at all times. He still was unsteady on his feet at times, had fallen more than a few times, and was stubbornly reluctant to call for help when he did. A loud triangle had been installed on the porch, clanging rod hanging beside it, in case help was needed, and Maudie had had to use it a time or two, her being unable to get him back upright by herself. That had made him furious with himself, and no amount of talking could convince him they didn't view him as a weakling because of it, hold him in at least a little contempt for it, to resent his weakness taking their time from what else they should be doing.

At a conference at the kitchen table one afternoon, while Peter was sleeping, they talked it through, trying to find ways to deal better with the restrictions, and with his bitter feeling they were wasting their time with him when they were needed elsewhere, resenting it. It was Caeide, Mistress of Haven, who decided on the direction.

"Let's turn it around, not so much looking at what limitations there are right now; what are the opportunities? One of us, or more, has to be at the house all the time, fine. What does that give us the chance to do that we might not have taken the time to do otherwise?" And they talked and discussed, made lists, added things, crossed off others, and together they came up with several things that needed to be done, or that they had wanted to get done, would have normally put off til the colder months, or had just wanted to experiment with, but that they never seemed to have the free time to do during the warm months when their attentions were needed outside. Now, they determined, they would use those ideas, use this time to everyone's advantage.

All of them spent one evening bringing in the large loom and the quilting frame from storage, setting them up in the big room downstairs, moving other furniture up into storage, out of the way; these were usually out and active only during the coldest of the winter months, but now would be put back into use. The half finished quilt, intended as a gift for Reverend Miles, was loaded back onto the rack; new threads strung on the loom, waiting for whichever one of them first sat down with the shuttle to start the new woven cloth. Maude inventoried the linens, and set aside the ones that needed to be mended; brought down the new bolts of material to be cut to size, stitched and hemmed; one side of the large alcove was set up to accommodate that task. Marisol cleared out the stray bits and pieces from that storeroom nearest the kitchen, the one they'd intended to turn into a stillroom, replacing the older, now very inconvenient one that was still up at the old homestead. The young ones spend most of two afternoons, carefully packing up and moving everything from that old stillroom, under Maude's careful supervision; Maude and Marisol would get it all sorted and stored away as the moments permitted. Caeide pulled out the breeding records and the stock books, getting them caught up to date from the tall stack of notes. She redid the seven year plan for planting, harvesting, storing, allowing for the feeding of more mouths, allowing for more in charity since there would be more need in the surrounding area now as well with those returning from the war, allowing for more to be sent to the Clan in return for their own generous support.

Now, if Peter asked what each was doing, they could give him a good solid answer, explaining what work was being done and why it was needful; somehow that comforted him, knowing they weren't here just because they thought him helpless, but because they had a necessary task to do inside. Perhaps he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was not work they'd have been undertaking during the bright days of spring and summer and the still clear days of autumn, but, being a city lad, maybe not. If it brought him some ease of mind and spirit, it was all to the good, and at the end of each week, the women were truly astonished at just how much had been accomplished. They knew it would never have been possible without the help of the four giving up their time and energy to help Haven, and them, in their hour of need; they knew, too, that those four were glad to be doing so, and would most likely benefit from similar aid during their life, if they hadn't already.

Caeide, Maude and Marisol were grateful to the four, but never so much as when they realized it was young Douglas who had made the breakthrough with Peter. Peter had never been one to discuss his feelings, even at the best of times; no one had been surprised that he wasn't forthcoming now that he was home. So none of them had realized what was, at least partially, at the root of his pushing them away.

It had been one of those days when both Caeide and Marisol HAD to be out in the fields and with the stock and helping with the harvest from the orchard; Maude had come down with a sick headache, or so she said, with a quick glance over at Douglas, and Douglas, having planned it out, had volunteered to stay at the house, using the excuse of needing to do some research in the library for a project he'd been assigned by one of his teachers. Peter felt comfortable with Douglas, at least more comfortable than with the others, perhaps because of his age, perhaps because he hadn't known Peter at his best, perhaps because of those letters Coura had sent Andrew at the camp, letters that somehow fixed a connection between the two youngest in the family and Peter. And, unlike Peter, Douglas WAS a talker, a bit of a chatterer, someone who talked about not just what happened but how he felt about what happened, how he thought his sisters and parents felt about things.

It was a revelation to Peter, who made a point of NOT talking about such things, and who wasn't quite sure how to take all that unaccustomed sharing, but since Douglas didn't urge him to share in return, he was comfortable enough, sitting, working his hands with the exercise pieces Patrick had brought him on the last trip, massaging in the healing salve before and after.

He thought to himself, {"it's a little bit like listening to Andrew, cept 'e doesn't natter on so; 'e finishes what 'e has to say about something, and then moves on, stead of looping back around like Andrew was like to do."} He realized, with a frown, that this was the first time he'd thought, consciously, about Andrew, indeed, about any of the others, and he was shocked.

Before he could get lost in that train of thought, however, he was brought sharply back to Douglas, who had just said, "it's one of those things you know, I guess, but don't really think about. I mean, how things change, how you change, as things happen. You think, when I take my Practicums, then I'll do this, or do that. Then, after I start training, then, when I decide what I want to do for occupation, all that. You never really understand, at least I never did, that you can't really plan that out, not really, because, once you're finished with Practicums, you aren't the same as you were before."

"Well, that next to last Practicum, not the one with Rodney and Meghada, the one before, I killed a man that trip out; I didn't expect that would happen, didn't expect how that changed me, though it'd been necessary to protect the others. Finding out the team leader didn't give a crap about his men, about us, was willing to use us up for his own benefit; I started looking at being a member of a team differently, looked at being a leader differently, too. The Practicum with Rodney, working with the guys - I knew, I guess, but I didn't realize how lucky I was, having the Clan behind me."

"See, we were coming up on the Day of Remembrance, we had reported to the Grandmother, and we were being given our assignments for telling on the Day, and I told Grandmother I didn't think I should be a part of that. She didn't get mad, like I thought she might. She got real quiet and sent Coura down to the kitchens, and sat me down as asked me why. When I told her I didn't think I deserved it, was ready, she said that by the records, according to all tradition, Coura and Douglas O'Donnell were of an age to participate. I remember I told her that maybe Coura and Douglas O'Donnell were, but I didn't feel like Douglas O'Donnell anymore, I'd changed too much."

Douglas was deep in thought, deep in his story, didn't look up to see Peter's head snap up, look at him with shock, with suspicion that this was a set-up. {"It ain't, though! This one, 'e don't 'ave any guile in 'im, not like the sister. And, sides, 'ow'd 'e know what I've been thinking?!"} and he sat aside his doubts and listened to this youngster. 

"I told her I'd changed too much, I'd learned too much, done too much, had killed a man, had heard from the guys what it was like in prison, how some of their family, some of their friends just weren't there for them anymore, had turned away, how the brass thought they were expendable for what they were; how on that job I was on, I saw that team leader not care that his people got hurt, just so he got the glory, how his team members couldn't trust him." Douglas's voice got sad, "that I'd just changed too much."

He gave a little bit of what might have been a laugh. "That's when I realized all over again just how lucky I was. She didn't tell me I was being silly, she didn't scold, didn't just say 'fine, then you don't need to take a part'. She just told me that everyone changes as things happen in their lives, things they do, things they see, things that they experience. That doesn't make them 'not Douglas', 'not Caeide', 'not Meghada', not themselves; it just means they move on to the newer stage of being that person; that no one could hold onto who they are at any one stage of life, unless they'd been so injured as to make change not possible, and that's hardly something to yearn after. That, she said, is why it's so important to keep close to those who love you, who truly care about you; that loving, that caring, at least among the Clan, well, that stays firm, that's something you can count on; that's what grounds you, lets you stay you through all the stages. She said, "Douglas, of course you are changing, will change. So will your father, so has he, many times over the years. That doesn't change who you are to each other. Coura will change many times; hold on to the fact that, throughout the changes, the changes in you, in her, who you are to each other, that won't change, not if you hold firm." She said it's a sad fact that many Outlanders don't think like that, but that's why they are Outlanders and we are Clan; we think differently, we live differently, we love differently; that's why we endure through the years. She had me think on it, said that the part I was to tell was mine unless I told her differently at dinnertime."

Peter looked with amazement at this youngster, who'd spoken to his heart, from his heart, "and you decided to tell the story, right?"

He got a huge grin in return. "She was right, Douglas had been given the honor of telling that story, and an honor it was, and I was still Douglas, would always BE Douglas, in all the ways that mattered. I told the story, Coura telling the counterpart, and we were proud to be able to do that." He tilted his head, listening, "they've come back from the orchard. I'm going to go help them unload; did you want to go downstairs? I'll go with you if you do, they're probably still a bit tricksey for you, aren't they? I remember when I was here a couple of years ago, I fell on the cliffs and broke my leg, and almost broke it again, probably my head as well, trying to make it down those stairs when I first got off the crutches," and he was off on another tangent. {"Yes, reminds me more than a bit of Andrew, with that unsuspected level of wisdom Andrew 'ad, too, that you'd never expect til it came rolling out."}

"No, Douglas, think I'll sit a bit; got some thinking to do, I 'ave," but with a kind and grateful smile, one more like the ones Maudie would've recognized, without quite so much darkness. With a nod in return, a grin, and a rushing to get down the stairs, the youngster left him there, to sit, to think, and consider.

Later, when the bell rang for dinner, he made his way down the hall, to the top of the stairs. He looked around the room below; the loom and quilting frame had taken the place of many of the round tables with their accompanying chairs, leaving just two or three, not including the large table in the corner by the alcove, the one that was left set up just as that table had been back at Maudie's, when he'd run his all night poker games. Even in the shifting of space for other purposes, that was left in place, and was being used for an occasional game of cards, a sharing of drinks. He smiled at that, the table that had reached out to him, told him he was home, just as the three women had welcomed him home. Before he could start down, Marisol was at the bottom, starting up.

"Glad to see you, Mari, could probably use a steadying 'and getting down," she heard, and the ache around her heart eased just a bit, at the words, the sound of his voice, and the more familiar look on his face.

"Was coming to do just that, Peter me lad; your place is all ready at the table," and with her at his side, they made their way down the stairs, through the big room into the kitchen, with its long table, with the extended family seated around it or waiting to sit, some gathering bowls and platters from the counter to sit in the middle of the table. He got himself seated at the single chair at the closest end , Caeide taking the same seat at the far end, looked around the table as everyone else got settled, and saw a face he'd not seen before, one he could tell was Clan, but not one he was familiar with.

He paused, took a deep breath, and stretching out his hand to the young man seated two places down, "don't think we've met; I'm Peter Newkirk," that being spoken softly but firmly, not seeing how Douglas and Coura exchanged a triumphant nod.

Caeide had seen that nod, though, and after dinner made a point of asking them to help her with checking on the horses.

"Well, you two, just what did you do?" They looked at each, a sly smile on their faces, and told her of them spotting him looking at himself in the mirror, his thoughts more than evident, his disgust, his dismay and sadness; that the story Douglas had told was quite true, and it was just that that let him recognize some of what was going on in Peter's mind.

"Just thought it might help a bit. Got the feeling he's so wrapped up in his own thoughts right now, in how he's changed, he might not realize everyone else has too."

Coura frowned over at her sister, "Caeide, have you and the others, have you talked about the difficulties you had during the war? I mean, I know there were lots of hard times, bad things happening. And, I know in your letters you tried to keep it peaceful, share some peace with him and his friends, but maybe. . ." and she paused, not quite sure how to say what she thought maybe needed to be said.

Caeide nodded, "we thought he had enough to deal with, enough grief of his own, but, do you mean maybe it led him to think he was the only one to have changed, to have had such things happen as to make a person change?" she asked, realizing her younger siblings may have just hit on a part of the problem.

"Well, we all tend to do that, you know, think on what's happening to us, seeing from our own point of view, unless someone else steps in and reminds us that things are happening to other people at the same time. Maybe a bit of reminiscing, not just the good times, but some of the bad as well, do it some, see how he takes it?" Douglas suggested, and she shook her head, tears coming to her eyes, and she pulled both of them to her, hugging them tightly, letting them feel the gratitude in her embrace.

"Maybe, just maybe, I'll have a bit of a talk with Maudie and Marisol; just might be there's some stories that could be told at that."


	5. The Healing Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A welcome visitor, and then another, lead to bringing Peter some peace and comfort. It's not the ultimate solution, certainly, but perhaps enough to allow the healing to continue and for time to circle around to where the next stages can begin.

.  
Not too soon, not in a studied fashion, but just sitting around the fire, a few nights later, Maude and Marisol brought the subject around to the pub. Maude had made a point of fixing an old favorite for their dinner, something that had been a bit of a speciality in those days, when the ingredients could be found. That gave them a way to ease into it, and it didn't take but a word or two for it to be picked up, that remembering. How the last time she'd been fixing it, the sirens had sounded, and she'd hurried to turn off the stove, and heading for the shelters, worrying for Marisol who'd been out on a job.

How it felt to see it all in ashes and rubble, that little place she and her brother had built up together, til his death in a brawl had left her alone. How she'd started out wanting to be nothing more than a wife and mother, but fate had put paid to the notion of mothering, just as fate had taken her Jamie from her at such an early age. Her brother Bert had been a mainstay for her, then, and in the early years of the pub, and how at his death she just went through the motions, til the motions became her life, and she had to think back to remember all the rest.

Then, returning from the shelter after the bombing had stopped, to see it all in ashes, turning, to find Marisol standing there, that same look of shock, of loss. Everything they had had been in that building, so many memories there, and they were numb as the wardens directed them to the temporary shelters being set up for the survivors. Them looking for familiar faces, seeing some, seeing only a lack where they'd hoped to find others.

Not a comfortable remembrance, not an easy one; one they'd not spoken of for a long time. They finished, in low voices, and there were no other voices, only warm comforting hands touching their arm, their shoulder. Peter said nothing either, but later let himself be helped up those stairs, settling into his big chair, nursing his one drink of the day, thinking of that pub that had been his second home for so many years, Maude and Marisol being like family to him, thinking of his first sighting of it when he'd made his way off that ship, the burned out heap of rubble, his wondering what had become of them, asking people he saw, with no one knowing.

He saw in his mind their faces then, all the many different expressions, Maude mothering him against his wishes, her scolding him, giving him a right good talking to when she thought he needed it. He compared that to the older, more worn face she wore now. He saw Marisol, all woman but with the harshness that came from living in the East End, being a big sister to him, teasing him, taking him to task; seeing her all fancied up to go the rounds, run some con on some unsuspecting bloke, seeing her laughing and joking with some of her friends; seeing the sadder, more reserved woman she was now, her always being a one for having people around, now, here with only a very few for company. Yes, all that passed through his mind, and when he glanced at himself in the mirror when he was getting ready for bed, he didn't become so morose as he had been. {"Well, we've all changed, now 'aven't we; might as well get used to that, it's not changing back again, odds on!"}

Caeide came in after he was tight under the covers, as she did these days, trying to give him the privacy he claimed he wanted. He felt as much as saw her in the darkness, settling down on the sofa near him, and he wanted to speak, but a strange shyness possessed him, and he didn't.

Though when the nightmares came, as they still did on a nightly basis, and she came to him, to gently draw him out of the shadows, to hold him and comfort him, this time, he didn't pull away afterwards, but cautiously, carefully put his arms around her waist, laid his head in the curve of her shoulder, sighed and settled down to sleep. And he did not know of the tears that streamed from her eyes, at the feel of him in her arms, the brush of his hair against her cheek.

But he did know, still in a sleepy haze, in the early pre-dawn when she moved away to get ready for her day's work; did feel the soft kiss on his hair, on his cheek, and heard the whispered words,"it's early, love, go back to sleep. I'll see you later," and he smiled a bit, sighed, and moved deeper into the covers to drift back into sleep.

He did know, that night, as she came in to take her usual place on the sofa and found the covers folded away and sitting on a chair where he'd placed them, though in some apprehension; saw her pause in surprise, and then turn toward the bed as he spoke into the darkness, "you can't be comfortable over there; surely there's room enough here for both of us, don't you think?" And as she eased under the covers next to him, they both sighed in contentment at the shared warmth, at the implied promise of a new start. She thought of the dreams they'd both had, they and young Andrew; he'd made no mention of them, and she wondered if the illness had erased all memory of them, and that thought saddened her. Maybe, with time, that would be restored as well.

***

He fought his desperate need for release, railed at his inability to give himself even that. He hadn't felt the need in a long time, probably his body wasn't well enough to waste the energy on such, he thought, but still it had him some concerned. Now, the need was there, riding him hard; he woke with it, it gripped him at odd moments, it came in the evenings as he sat in his big chair and thought back over the day, it roused him from his sleep. He was careful to hide that need from her as best he could. He thought she'd probably accept that need, as she accepted everything else about him, but he didn't dare let her see. He was afraid. He was afraid of loosing that need on her, afraid he couldn't control himself enough to be gentle. He was afraid of having that be their first time, not coming from a true desire for each other, but just a harsh physical craving for release on his part. And, he was afraid, since so often, the form, the forms, that came into his mind when the need came upon him, well, it wasn't always hers. And he was afraid she'd realize that, and feel used and betrayed.

He'd tried to satisfy the need himself; wasn't like he didn't know how, by any means, like he hadn't done it many times before, of course. But now when he touched himself, he couldn't get the touch right; sometimes all he did was aggravate himself worse, never getting satisfaction, having to leave the erection to fade away on its own, a painful process at best. Other times, even when he was careful, he felt only pain, and was quick to cease before he did himself an injury. Sometimes he wondered if that episode with those 'ravens' hadn't done some damage, with all they'd done, with that contraption they'd fitted to him with such ill intent. Wilson had thought they'd gotten him free of it in time for there to have no lasting effects, and he'd never talked to Wilson about all else that that been done, but now, Peter just had to wonder. 

She knew when the physical desire returned; she waited, but he never approached her, in fact did everything he could to hide it from her. She could guess part of his motivation, but knew she was missing many pieces in understanding. She'd need more before she could help, and he did need help, there was no mistaking that. She talked to Patrick, who'd confirmed that. There were said to be actual medical problems resulting from that non-release, if it kept on for too long, and even discounting that, the longer it lasted, the greater that shyness would become. She knew the time had come to take some action, though she didn't know what, when Douglas and Coura approached her. That pair, they were wise beyond their years, but had a way of approaching things that might have been cautioned against by many. Somehow, they reminded her of young Andrew and his homemade explosives.

"Caeide, can we talk to you?" came the question, and she turned to see her youngest brother and sister, just slightly closer to fourteen than fifteen still, at the entrance to the big barn.

"Of course, come along and sit," and she made her way to a stack of hay bales.

They sat facing her, "Peter," and Douglas hesitated, getting just a bit of a flush in his face.

"Yes, Douglas?"

"Well, he's needing, you know, I mean," only to have Coura interject, "as Casino would say, 'he's goin' around sportin' a good un', most of the time now," and Caeide had to laugh at that description, yes, one sounding much like something the safecracker would say.

"Yes, I noticed. He's trying to not let me know, but it's rather hard to hide," looking at her younger siblings questioningly.

"Well, I asked him if he needed some help, nothing personal as such, just a helping hand, and I think I kinda upset him," admitted Douglas, and she felt her jaw drop. "I'd thought maybe it was just because I'm a guy, so I told him that Coura would probably be willing to help if he'd rather, and I think that made it even worse. He turned bright red, and stuttered something, I don't even know what he was saying, not sure he did either, and he left the room as quickly as he safely could."

Caeide couldn't help it, her laughter just had to come out. "Oh, loves, I know you meant well, but . . . No, your being a guy wouldn't have been the problem; your relationship to me, your age, all of you being under my roof, all that is much more likely, and probably a lot more; I can't imagine him taking you up on your very kind and thoughtful offer."

She paused, looked at them, consideringly, "you don't make this kind of offer to others, do you?", only to receive their assurances that, no of course not, just that they liked Peter, cared about him and were concerned for him. She looked at them, shaking her head in amazement, or was it amusement, then, "well, he might make himself a bit scarce around you for awhile, be a bit shy of you, you might want to expect that, but I'll find a way to let him know you meant it only out of friendship."

"Caeide, you and he, I mean, why doesn't he, I mean, why don't you. . . " and Coura let her voice trail off, realizing she'd probably strayed into territory she needed to stay clear of, not that that had ever stopped her before.

"That's still something we're trying to work out, loves; it's not so simple as it might sound. Nothing with Peter is ever simple, believe me! He's the working definition of complicated, he is! Now, off with you, and I do thank you for trying to help, AND especially for letting me know about it." They departed, and she continued with her work, pausing now and again, imagining the scene as it had been related to her, and shaking her head, "oh, my poor lad! I can just bet you turned bright red!"

He couldn't believe it! He'd thought he'd been rather successful in hiding his recent situation, but today, to have Douglas, of all people, offer to 'lend a hand', or if not him, 'probably Coura would be willing to help'; even considering they were Clan, that was more than a bit much! He didn't remember what he'd told the youngster, just knew he'd stuttered something and left the room as fast as his legs could take him. He kept shy of them for the rest of the day and evening, but he knew, when Caeide came to their room that night by the questioning glance she gave him that she knew about it, just as he knew he couldn't have her continue to believe that of him, that he was capable of such a betrayal of her, her family.

Stiffly, urgently he told her, "it wasn't my idea, I swear; I never approached 'im, either of them, I wouldn't 'ave, you 'ave to believe me," only to have her shake her head at him, at his obvious distress.

"I never thought you would, Peter. Please, don't be so upset about it; he, they both meant it kindly."

Peter's eyes grew wide, "now 'e doesn't go around making that kind of offer freely, does 'e?", to be greatly relieved to have her assure him that indeed, neither of the youngsters would do so; that they were simply worried for him, and being Douglas and Coura, well, their approach was bound to be highly unconventional.

"Dear, I could tell you such stories! If you thought I was a handful, you've not seen anything like this pair!" Peter, in thinking back on the letters Coura had sent Andrew, could well believe that!

"What about this 'Kevin' Coura kept mentioning? The one we met in camp. Thought she had a fancy for him?" thinking to change the subject.

She chuckled, knowing quite well what he was doing, "yes, and actually has Bonded to him, her and Ciena both, though waiting til his discharge papers come through next month before they settle in somewhere, at least out in the open, as much as that'll be possible anyway. That's more reason to know neither of that pair intended anything more personal in that offer, probably looked at it more like offering to bandage a cut or take out a splinter you couldn't quite reach yourself," seeing by the totally aghast look on his face that that explanation hadn't helped a great deal.

They sat together in the dim light, and finally she asked him, quietly, "is there some reason you prefer not to come to me?", knowing while it was not an easy question for her to ask, it probably was even a less easy question for him to answer. So she was surprised when he made a serious attempt at it.

She listened, to hear about his worry about losing control, hurting her; wanting them being together to be more than this, the physical urgency, but for now, that's what it would be, until he got this under control. That the scars bothered him, that he thought they'd have to bother her too, and not wanting her to have to tolerate that closeness with such, thinking it would distress her, perhaps sicken her. She felt his shame as he admitted all that.

"And?" to have his head turn aside, still tilted down, shaking in denial of her question. Well, that didn't matter; she could guess that, more or less, she'd heard his mutterings in his sleep often enough; she didn't know which of them called to him, maybe someone else entirely, but knew he didn't feel comfortable talking to her about it. She nodded, rose and poured him his one drink of the day.

"Sit back, love, relax and sip on that. You've had an eventful day by all measure." and slipped out the door, leaving him in the now almost dark room, thinking his thoughts. She noticed, made sure to notice, that Casino's words again rang true.

"Can't believe we just 'ad that conversation. Not as unbelievable as what that youngster suggested, I'm still shaking my 'ead on that, but it was easier talking to 'er about it all than I'd thought it would be. Still on, doubt she's much in charity with me right now, seeing as 'ow she's not come back."

He sighed, setting the glass on the table next to his chair, leaning his head back against the chair, thinking about getting up, getting ready for bed, waiting for himself to subside, knowing there wasn't enough time to try for anything else before she'd probably be back for bed herself, not that he thought he'd be any more successful in that line than he'd been any other time since he'd come home, not even really wanting to make the effort anymore. He sat in the darkness, thinking to himself that it was appropriate, seeing how much darkness sat within him now.

In the room down the hall, she looked at herself in the mirror. Hair tightly drawn back and wrapped, not so obviously a woman's hair now. Long dress shirt, buttoned high, coming down to her knees, loose enough to hide her shape, with the tight binding she wore beneath it. Loose trousers. She'd scrubbed well, making sure she'd gotten rid of any hint of the light heather scent she wore, making sure her basic woman scent was bathed away as well. No added scent; if she'd known which, if either, was drawing him, she'd have added something that would enhance the illusion, but she didn't, so better nothing.

She padded her way back to their room, hesitated, and went on to the far room, entering quietly through the adjoining pocket door, where he'd not be expecting her to enter. He was still sitting in the chair, deep in thought, and was not aware of her til she was kneeling in front of him, visible only as a shadow. The voice, when it came, was not hers, more like that faintly remembered voice she'd used when she was portraying the very male Clancy, in the camp.

"You won't send me away, will you? There's much we can share tonight, you and I."

He barely got out the startled word, "who?" only to hear the reply, soft and low, even more masculine than before, "whoever you want me to be, whoever you need me to be." He inhaled sharply, only to hear the words, "tonight, don't worry about being in control; tonight, you only have to receive what is given, given freely. Just sit back, accept," the figure urged, and in wonder, finding himself trembling, he did, and those hands reached out, touching, caressing, opening and freeing him.

He heard a soft deep chuckle and murmured words in that strange, not-so-strange voice, words exciting him, praising him, telling him things he wanted so much to hear, words he seemed to remember from a dream, though he didn't remember the dream itself. Those hands, hard and strong, seeming to know what he wanted, needed; then a warm mouth, taking, giving with a relentless demand. It didn't take long, he'd been without for too long, but the release when it came was intense and pleasurable, and his cry of completion loud, echoing through the darkened room.

A final caress, and the shadow slipped back out the dividing door. He sat in the chair, shaking, slowing regaining his breath. He stood up to remove his clothes, to wash himself in the basin on the washstand, and slid into the bed, in time for Caeide to come through the door from the hallway.

"Hope I didn't take too long, Peter; I had some things to deal with elsewhere," came her own cheerful, matter of fact voice, and he watched as she slipped out of her clothes and into the bed alongside him. She didn't pull close as she usually did, but waited til he reached out for her. It took some time, but eventually he pulled her into the warmth of his body.

"That's alright, luv, 'ad some company to while away the time," he said, his voice still shaky.

"Pleasant company, Peter?"

"Oh, yes, most pleasant," and she smiled, knowing she'd been successful, he'd gotten what he needed, had been willing to accept what was offered.

"Perhaps, when you're expecting such company again, you might let me know; I'll be sure there's a second glass for you to offer your guest a drink," and he smiled down at her in the darkness, knowing she was giving him a way to tell her, to ask her, without having to say the difficult words.

In the wee hours of the pre-dawn, when she awoke, she started to move back, to ready herself for the day. She inhaled sharply to feel his erection against her, and trembled with her sudden desire for him, but still she began her usual routine, a light kiss to his hair, a kiss to his cheek, had opened her mouth to murmur her usual farewell, to unexpectedly feel him centering himself above her, pressing her down into the covers beneath him. He moved against her, stroking, teasing, softly, slowly, til his moving brought forth a whimper, a moan from her, and a satisfied grunt from him as he sensed her readiness, and then the feel of him pressing against her, into her, and she arched into him, as she'd dreamed for more years than she wanted to think!

This wasn't like when they'd joined on those oh-so-strange visits, perhaps because this had been more hard-won. There were no sweet words, no tender entreaties, only them together, reaching out, striving together, until she screamed in need fulfilled, and he cried out after her, deep and hoarse, loud enough that Maude and Marisol heard them, and wondered, and rejoiced at the same time.

{"Finally,!!"} thought Maudie, {"so long in the coming, so rich in the fulfilling!"} Marisol reached for her boots and jacket, {"Well, guess I'd better be seeing to the big stock, think she'll be tied up for awhile!"} and so she was.

***

She knelt before him, in the darkness, touching, stroking. As usual, her hair was bound tight against the back of her head, she was dressed in the long dress shirt and trousers, washed clean of scent that might disturb the fantasy. Yet, tonight, there was a different feel in the air, a tension in him more than the usual need. In the deeper, masculine voice she used at these times, "what, Peter, what do you need?" to be answered by a groan, and a deep shudder went through him. He stood, pulling her to feet as well, and put his hand out to stroke her; she felt the heat through the seat of her trousers, felt him lingering on the swells, dipping into the crevice between, and she tensed inside. She'd been expecting this, at some stage, and still wasn't sure she was ready. But, as she had been expecting it, she'd made some preparation, had a small glass jar of her comfrey salve at the bedside; she'd done enough reading in preparation for this to know that, or something similar would be necessary. She quickly cast her mind back on all else she'd read, that would make this something she could do.

She dipped her head, to lay it against his chest, standing sideways to give him the access he needed. As his need grew stronger, she felt him straining against her hip, his hands careful not to stray where the illusion could be crushed. She let herself give a deep chuckle, and moved away, pulling him toward the bed, unfastening her trousers as they went. By the time they reached the side of the bed, she was able to drop and step out of them, and turned to help him rid himself of his as well. She was careful to keep the dress shirt in place, it coming almost to her knees. She reached out to caress him, stroke him, and he shuddered under her touch. The jar of salve she opened with one hand, and slowly, teasingly coated his hard erection in it, then moved back to the bed. She'd already figured out how the pillows needed to be, to give her what she would need also to make this easier; she knew he'd not touch her, in that way; the illusion was too important to break it that way, so had to find her own ways. She looked back at him over her shoulder, smiled in the semi-darkness, spoke to him, urging him onward.

He moved slowly, easing himself onto the bed, stroking along her back, onto the rounds of her buttocks, and with a groan, touched her, easing a slippery finger into her. She hadn't been sure he'd think to prepare her, but he had, and did, enough for her to start to relax, enough to accept when it wasn't his fingers anymore, when there was all of him nestled at her entrance, then pushing forward. He went slowly, gently, and gradually he lost himself, as she thought he might.

The words he murmured, finally the name he whispered, all let her know it wasn't her kneeling in front of him anymore, it wasn't dark red hair he was seeing in his mind, it was brown; the face he was imagining, well, perhaps a bit narrow, eyes a bit innocent, a bit mischievious; and when he came deep inside her, and his face rested on her back while he let his breathing return to normal, and she felt the warm breath just before his lips pressed one last kiss to her shoulder, she knew giving him this, this gift, had been important.

There'd been no satisfaction, no release on her part; she'd been too wrapped up in what he was doing, what he was experiencing to let herself drift that far away. Perhaps she'd learn how to do that better, but if not, well, that wasn't as important as the peace she felt within him now. That peace wouldn't last, she knew, but for a little while . . . She eased away, rolled away, and as he settled onto his side, she leaned over and kissed him on his dark head. In that Clancy voice, "sleep well, love," and left him to seek her own bed.

She was glad it had been Andrew; it might not always be, she knew that, but somehow, Andrew being first, that made it better, something she was more comfortable with, making her more able to accept the other when, if it became his turn.

Peter lay staring at the ceiling, still in wonder at what had happened, how real she had made it for him, the gift she had given him. And in his dreams that night, he relived that, his Andrew coming to him, offering himself to him, and he awoke to damp cheeks and lashes, and a gentle smile on his lips.


End file.
